


Wings to Speak

by mara_jade



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel Wings, Couch Cuddles, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 17:20:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19705963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mara_jade/pseuds/mara_jade
Summary: Something is going on with Crowley, and Aziraphale is going to find out what it is and make it better.





	Wings to Speak

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this to my blog a few weeks ago and decided to put it here for easy reference.

The thing about it is, Crowley will never admit it, much less ask for it. Aziraphale has known him for 6000 years, and knows this to be so true he could write it in the stars without a second thought.

The other thing is, Crowley needs it sometimes. And since he’ll never ask for it (see previous point), Aziraphale has to make it happen without making it obvious. Crowley is cantankerous at the best of times, and these situations are not even close to being the best of anything.

Aziraphale knows something is brewing as soon as he gets off the lift in Crowley’s building. He could just miracle himself at the door, but he likes Crowley’s building; there’s something just slightly intoxicating about it, like opening up a favorite book for the thousandth time. So even in the dead of winter in London, he takes a walk to visit his oldest friend.

As soon as the lift doors close behind him, he can hear a raised voice which only grows louder as he approaches the door to Crowley’s flat. Aziraphale struggles for a moment with the key, damned modern locks, and by the time he gets the door open the voice has been replaced by a high-pitched whining, accompanied by a guttural grinding.

Oh dear. Something must be terribly off; Crowley hasn’t put any of his plants down the garbage disposal since the day several months ago when he returned from the kitchen to find Aziraphale lovingly comforting his (remaining) greenery. Crowley hadn’t said anything about it, but Aziraphale had noticed that no more had gone missing, so to speak.

Aziraphale takes a left to the kitchen instead of a right to the greenery room; something must have set Crowley off, and until that is remedied the plants will have to wait to be consoled.

He finds the demon just shutting off the switch for the disposal; he looks up at Aziraphale with a slightly guilty expression.

“Leaf spots again?” Aziraphale asks lightly, tugging nervously at his coat. He doesn’t like seeing Crowley upset.

“Nah, bugger shed leaves all over the carpet,” Crowley replies, still standing at the sink, arms braced on the counter.

“Well, can’t have that then.”

Aziraphale takes a moment to study Crowley. He’s wearing black, which is no surprise, and he looks tired, which is also not a surprise. Demons might not sleep, but they can still feel weary. Much like angels, really. But while Aziraphale recharges with a good reread of his Wilde collection and a hot cup of cocoa, Crowley seems to just barrel his way through fatigue until he makes it all the way back around to hellraising. That only works for so long, however. Miracles can take a lot of energy, and it only gets worse over time.  
Crowley is wearing a black turtleneck sweater with black wool trousers, and black socks. It’s January, so none of that is particularly out of place, but now that Aziraphale is actively tuning in to the surroundings, he can tell that the air is rather chilly. Ah, so there’s the problem.

“It seems cold in here,” Aziraphale says with a tentative smile.

“Heat’s out,” Crowley replies shortly. He has a sour look on his face. “I’m done forcing it to work; the building supervisor is going to have to fix it himself this time.”

Most people know that Crowley is a demon, that part is easy, but they often forget what kind of demon he is. When you get right down to it, Crowley is a snake. And as much as he takes a human form and wears clothes and has houseplants, there’s still some things he can’t change about being a snake. He’s gotten better at temperature regulation over the last several thousand years, but he’s not great at it, and certainly not able to stay warm in January in London with no heat.

So now Aziraphale has to figure out how to help his friend. More specifically, how to help his friend without getting his head bitten off by an extremely cross fallen angel. Also, he’d like to prevent the building supervisor from being cursed within an inch of his life (quite literally in this case).

“Well. May I make some tea? That will help warm me up.” If Aziraphale talks about warmth in relation to himself, it makes it easier for Crowley to acquiesce. 

“Of course you can make tea, why would I care?” Crowley snaps. He looks contrite immediately afterward, still standing awkwardly by the sink.

“Why don’t you go sit? I’ll be there shortly,” Aziraphale says gently, ignoring the outburst. He understands where it’s coming from now. That poor deceased plant.

Crowley slinks over to his (black) couch and throws himself in the corner. Within a few minutes, Aziraphale has two mugs of tea ready. It was only a minor miracle to boil the water in the kettle, hardly an effort at all. Crowley likes his on the sweet side, so Aziraphale loads up one mug with sugar and carries them both over to the sitting room, where he places himself in the center of the couch. Not touching Crowley, of course, but close enough to easily place the tea in his hands.

“Oh, what’s this? I didn’t need any tea,” Crowley mumbles, but then takes a sip and holds the mug in both of his hands. 

Aziraphale doesn’t think a verbal response is necessary.

They sit quietly for a few minutes, looking out of the windows of the flat at Parliament, drinking their tea.

After a while, once it appears Crowley has calmed a bit, Aziraphale scoots over so he’s closer to him, not quite touching. It’s probably his imagination, but he feels like he can sense the discomfort that his friend is in. The thought is disturbing enough that he gathers his resolve and slowly brings one white wing around Crowley’s body.

Crowley doesn’t say anything, which is promising. If it’s going to go badly, this is the point at which that usually happens. Aziraphale would rather not apologize for trying to help, but he will if necessary.

He leaves it there for now, the feathers of his right wing gently wrapped around the dark form still gripping a mug of tea.

Eventually, Crowley leans in ever so slightly. It would be nearly imperceptible, except that Aziraphale has been watching and waiting for this very moment. He follows Crowley’s body towards him with his wing, and then very gently nudges him further, while also leaning the opposite way. The whole process unfolds incredibly slowly, but Aziraphale understands that Crowley still needs some plausible deniability at this point. 

After what seems like an eternity, but is really only several minutes, Crowley finally gives in. With a put upon sigh, he lays his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder and brings his feet up onto the couch. Aziraphale wraps his wing tightly around Crowley’s form, and moves his arm to rest around Crowley’s shoulder. For comfort. Yes. Comfort.

More minutes pass in now comfortable silence as the sun slinks across the sky in pursuit of late afternoon.

“Thank you, angel,” Crowley says eventually, voice low and eyes closed.

“You are most welcome,” the angel murmurs, taking the tea mug from Crowley’s hands. He lets it go without argument.

Perhaps later they’ll go out for dinner, maybe the Vietnamese place with the fantastic pho, and Aziraphale can see about putting the fear of God into the building supervisor. Just a little bit. For now, they rest quietly.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to come scream with me about these two lovely dorks, you can find me on [the tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brbtherescookies)


End file.
